


Vikings

by Sauou



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:32:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauou/pseuds/Sauou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the BBS were Vikings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vikings

**Author's Note:**

> Jones & Houser – created GTA. I took creative liberties. Bear with me.

It was one of the most beautiful days anyone had seen in a long time, least of all Evan, having spent pretty much all of the last weeks of winter and first from spring cooped up indoors with his father.

His dad was dying, and no amount of gentle warm sunshine, open blue cloudless skies, or soft breezes bring in the sounds of nearby wildlife could change any of that. Evan knew it was useless, but still he begged the medicine man to find a way to spare his father.

"You can try praying," the healer suggests, helping the old man to sit up and drink his soup.

"Praying," Evan scoffs. "To what end? If Odin wants my father he will take him. The whims of a mortal are not going to sway the gods."

"My son," the old man coughs out. "Be cautious in your words! I have not long left in this world and I will not see you struck down by the very ones you mock so freely. They are old, and wise. And hope that one day you will be the same. If Odin chooses to take me to the Great Hall, I will gladly go. It would be an honor."

"Yes father," he bows his head in humility, his heart still burning.

"My king," The medicine man starts, hand on the old man's chest. "Vanoss, my lord, .. there is really not long left. You must prepare." He turns to look at Evan, still standing in the corner of the hut. "Your father will be dead before the hunt begins."

Evan stares at the portraits on the walls of the hut, _Jones and Houser_ , the first lords of their small village. The first kings to settle in this land and build a colony, and ignores the way his father, Vanoss, wheezes on his sickbed, struggling just to breathe.

"Pray that you may be great like them, my son," Vanoss calls out, noticing the direction of Evan's gaze.

"I'm not ready," whispers the scared man.

–

Tyler is already in the hut by the time Evan makes it home, dragging his feet through the mud and muck and refusing to meet anyone's gaze. Mourning a loss in his heart so big that words alone can't compare.

"You're early," Evan announces from the door, leaning on the frame to brush his boots clean. "I can't imagine what your swords must think of you, sitting there in your shop all alone without you. I've never even seen you here before sundown."

"And you're late," Tyler replies from his bed of furs, the sharp biting sound of metal on stone echoing through the log cabin and he sharpens his knives, more from boredom than any real pressing need. "I take it things didn't go as you'd hoped."

"My dad is dead," Evan hisses, slamming the heavy oak door with such force the walls creak in despair.

"He will be missed." The stone is set down as Tyler gets to his feet. "And don't look at me like that either, you knew just as well as the rest of us that Vanoss didn't have long left in this world. He was a great man, a _strong_ man. But what the gods want, _the gods get._ Evan, your father was _too strong._ "

"I miss the old days," Evan admits, reluctantly, as Tyler stands before him, a towering monster of a man. "It was so much simpler back then."

"We were only children then," Tyler corrects. "Everything is simple to a child."

Evan breathes heavy, a pressing in his chest.

"He _will_ be missed," comes the gentle reminder as Tyler pulls Evan into a hug. "But you have us, remember? You have your friends."

–

The funeral procession takes all day. Far before even the first light of dawn there are voices crying out. Singing in distress the ancient elegy.

Mournful caroling sounds from outside, even through the walls and door, echoing through Evan. Who is sorting through his father's belongings. Clothes and old relics. The pair of heavy swords Vanoss always carried to battle, long red strips of leather guarding the hilt.

He lifts Vanoss' armor and chest piece, holding it before himself high, imagining his father in the dark leather, standing there before him imposing even in his short stature. Faint etchings of wings still engraved on the leather.

The room brightens as Tyler and Brock enter, sunlight breaking through the open doorway.

"Shouldn't you be preparing for the sacrifice?" Evan asks Brock, his back to them both and still staring at his father's garments. His armor now. His swords now.

His tribe.

"I don't think my not being there is going to make the sheep any less dead in a few hours," Brock replies bitterly, sitting down at the table. "Bessy and Majora too! My favorite ones.." He bemoans, groaning, louder than he wanted to, and hunches into himself.

"Don't Evan," Tyler stops the sharp words he knows are on the tip of his friend's tongue. "And don't glare like that. _I know_ , okay? It's going to be alright." He follows the path through hut to where Evan is kneeling beside his father's sickbed. " _You'll be fine._ " And nods down at him.

Evan breathes in.

And puts on Vanoss' leather chest piece. Standing to buckle the leather straps and preparing himself.

Brock stands, one hand drifting across the table as he waits, ready.

And Tyler picks up the two swords, handing one at a time to Evan until he warns, "Now don't get a big head, man. You may be the leader now, but there ain't no damn body that's the boss of me." And grins with flashing teeth as he slaps Evan's back.

"Hey!" He protests, twisting to rub the stinging between his shoulders. Even through the layers and leather it _still hurt._

–


End file.
